Part One
Real Talk
All I Have Ever Been and
All I Will Never Be
At the early age of five, I had unique talents. I could rattle off
the names of all the Brooklyn Dodgers. I could eat a Charlotte
Russe in three bites. And at the age of six, when nobody came
to pick me up after a day in first grade at Brooklyn’s PS 229, I
walked all the way home alone. Alone. It was a sign.
In about 1965, I began taking acting classes at HB Studio
on Bank Street in Manhattan. I drove there every Sunday from
Valley Stream, in my 1962 beige Corvair, with my friend Linda.
My teacher was James Patterson, and for one glorious moment
in time, my acting partner was Robert DeNiro. We did a scene
from the play The Diary of Anne Frank. I was just awful. He
must have loathed doing the scene with me because after that
Sunday, he never returned to class. Time passed.
I finished college at C.W. Post, and I began teaching in
Manhattan in 1968. It was probably in the 1970s that I enrolled
in nighttime classes at The Lee Strasberg Theater Institute. My
instructor was Ernie Martin. We did some improv in his classes,
and one night we sat in a circle and some guy next to me passed
me an imaginary doobie from which he had just taken a fake hit.
He pretended to be high, and I hesitated, trying to decide how
to handle that. I looked around at all the other students in that
group, all pretending to be stoned, and I pushed his hand away,
and I burst into hysterical laughter. I could not stop laughing. I
was out of control, exhibiting a Pseudobulbar Affect. I thought
my head was going to explode. That evening would become the
barometer through the decades by which I would evaluate all
other situations to determine if they were humor worthy.
It was in about 1986 when my thoughts turned to becom-
ing serious about show business and becoming a star. I had tak-
en another scene study class in the 1970s at HB Studio with Bill
Hickey so I enrolled in a class with him again. I was Blanche in
A Streetcar Named Desire and that scene received good
feed-back. I was filled with hope.
In 1987, I enrolled in Weist-Barron and took a few classes
in acting for commercials and soap operas. When those sessions
ended, I was like a bolt of lightning. I discovered stand-up comedy.
I began a class at The Comic Strip with Rob Weinstein,
took a comedy class at The Manhattan Punchline with Gabe
Abelson, and then a class at The New School with Scott Blake-
man. I was a professional student. I was happy in stand-up. I
even won a major contest in 1991 at Stand-up NY Comedy Club
to find New York City’s funniest teacher. I was on a roll!
I joined AFTRA and had some shitty headshots taken.
Trust me, they were horrendous. I never worked in anything
where belonging to AFTRA even mattered or was necessary,
but I liked being in AFTRA. It made me feel like I was making
progress. After many years of paying dues for totally nothing, I
sasked for an “honorary withdrawal” and received it. That was
before AFTRA merged with SAG. If the merger had been in
place, I don’t think I would have asked for an honorary with-
drawal. I was a stickler for details that would fuel my dream of
becoming a Hollywood movie star, and being in SAG would
have enhanced my delusions. My fantasy world needed layers
down a defined rabbit hole.
I had written an episode for the TV sitcom Seinfeld and
sent it for consideration in representation to a talent agency.
ICM must have liked it, because after they received it, instead
of tossing it into the circular file, they sent it to the producers of
that show, and I received a kind rejection in a reply from Tim
Kaiser! I later performed the entire episode on my own broad-
cast. It broke the internet. I was trending and a viral sensation.
Back to the past. I had taken two sabbaticals from teaching
and completed thirty credits above my master’s degree. I moved
up in the Board of Education pay scale and was moving closer
to a point where I could retire. My eye was on the prize at that
point: the almighty pension. Finally, the last day on the job ar-
rived. On that day, I waited for the bus that would take me back
home and into my new future. One door closed, and I hoped
another would open.
Soon thereafter, for fun, I volunteered at The Museum of
Television and Radio, now The Paley Center. I loved that lit-
tle gig: helping visitors in the museum locate on tapes the TV
shows from long ago for which they had fond memories. But I
was fired from that volunteer job! I was never on time, and that
got on their last nerve. I am a night owl, and it was a struggle to
get there at 1:00 PM.
I wanted to get work on TV or in films, and I knew I had to
get real and serious. I passed through acting technique sessions
with Sanford Morris, Sam Groom, and Jeanne Kaplan.
I took so many classes at HB that the school became my crib. I even took
another comedy class at The Gotham Comedy Club with Dan
Vitale. I probably enjoyed all those classes as much as any real
gig in “the business.”
Not long after, I was in a play called Mishkin’s Paradise.
We did it at The Producers’ Club in New York City. It was a
smash! The actors had a good time doing it, and I had fun. I am
happy Fred included me as “Rose/Sadie” in the production.
Soon, I had a chance to have a major role in an independent film,
but during my audition over dinner with the film writ-
er, Robert Siegel, at The Chelsea Gallery Diner, I stopped and
recommended another actor for the part. She was famous, and
he hired her. Why did I do that? I have no answer except to say
the concept of being in a film was starting to not have that much
appeal and my obstacles sabotage my own life. In the end, I was
a total flop at “getting real.” The only thing is that the actor, who
got that part because of me, lives in my neighborhood, and she
sees me all the time, and she never even thanked me. That really
bothered me.
So my dream was to become a movie star. That never happened.
I was not a risk taker and stayed with that day job for
almost thirty-five years. And after retirement, I got cold feet. I
feel I spent much of my life hiding under the bed.
A few years later, I reinvented myself and created “Yetta
Telebenda” and began daily live broadcasts on the internet. I be-
came sort of cyber famous. The show is a partial verbal memoir,
and I discuss my life and talk about some aspects of my per-
sonal history and experiences. I do comedy sketches, dramatic
readings, sing, and do impressions. And years ago, I also did
some live broadcasts on the streets of NYC. My life as Yetta has
been filled with adventures. I have many fans, and I make them
laugh…. and oh, I have trolls too. Success!
When a “fan” sent me this message, I was moved:
There is a man I read about who leaves fresh flow-
ers for his deceased wife every single day. I want to do
the same thing for you years down the line along with
reading a newly written letter aloud to you every day and
I will end it with “Goodnight Yetta, wherever you are.”
Everything happens for a reason. In many ways, I feel
I disappointed my younger self, who had so many hopes and
dreams. I am sorry, little Marjorie. But maybe in some small-
scale way I actually did “make it.” And life moves as quickly as
hot butter on cold snow.
I Used to Live Here as a Kid
I took that special ride today, back to the street and house where
I grew up. I parked my car and walked up the same driveway I
had walked up thousands of times so many years ago when that
house belonged to my family. I climbed the three front porch
steps and peeked in through the glass front door, but the interior
was barely visible: all dark and muted. It was a different house,
not my house. I rang the bell, and nobody answered. I gathered
nobody was home because the mailbox was stuffed and full.
So, I turned around and walked down the three front porch
steps and then turned around and looked back. It was almost
dusk and chilly under a cloudy, grey sky, and the wind rustled
some long, tall plants in front of the living room’s bay window.
They swayed back and forth, back and forth. I was overwhelmed
with a great and almost unbearable sadness.
Nobody was home, and nobody would ever be back home
there for me. The street was bleak, depressing, and unrecogniz-
able... the houses seemed forlorn and like shadows of their for-
mer selves. The streets where children once played and rode their
bikes were empty. The stream where we once caught tadpoles
and watched them change to frogs was dry. There was silence
where once there was noise. Going back that day was personally
like visiting a cemetery. There was so much emptiness, and a
great feeling of loss. The wind kept rustling the front shrubbery,
rustling the shrubbery, and as I stood all alone on that sidewalk,
for a minute it felt like nobody even lived on that street. Every-
body was gone. The street was a gloomy ghost town.
I thought of my bedroom in that house where I would look
out of my window and see the lights from the back of the houses
behind our house. I could still hear the neighbors talking from
a time long gone, as they had dinner on their patio and played
music from long ago.
I got back into my car and drove away, consumed with
strange, heavy emotions. I will always think of that street. Al-
ways. I knew I would never go back there again... but as the view
of that street disappeared in the rear view mirror, I remembered
the time so many years ago when I drove away from that street
into the city and moved into the apartment where I still live.
